


The Kindest of Words are Saved for the Dead

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: prompt: root and shaw aren't exactly exclusive, they just spend all their time together outside of work and sleep together. a lot. root tries to have "the talk" and it creates a really big argument with Shaw denying everything. Harold calls them in right in the middle of their screaming match. they go off to help a number and root gets severely hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindest of Words are Saved for the Dead

"Root, I am  _not_  having this conversation,” Shaw spits, brushing past her and grabbing the apartment’s door handle. She goes to pull it open, but Root leans against it, and the latch clicks back shut.

"Why not?" Root asks, brown eyes insistent as she looks at Shaw. Shaw’s gaze is smoldering as she stares right back.

"Because there is nothing to  _talk_  about.”

Root presses her lips together, eyes looking away in disbelief before coming back to Shaw.  _Nothing to talk about?_  She thinks, dejection and anger raging through her mind. _How about all the time we’re inseparable? How about all the dinners we’ve spent together- hell- the nights we’ve spent together?_  Root’s mind scans over all of them, in each she seems to never stop smiling, but now?  _I can’t even remember how a smile works._

Shaw, seeing something in Root’s eyes, rolls her jaw in agitation. “Listen, I know what you’re thinking,” her voice is hostile and quiet. “But none of- of  _that_ \- really matters. That’s not something you just- you  _talk_  about.” Shaw’s voice comes to a flustered end, but Root is only just beginning.

"It matters to  _me_ , Sameen.”

* * *

 

"Oh,  _please_ ,” Shaw says with a cruel smile. She tries to open the door again, and Root pushes herself against the door harder, and the latch hits once more. Shaw sends daggers her way, knuckles turning white with her death grip on the doorknob.

"What is it that is  _so_  hard for you to say?” Root asks, a plead in her words.

"Nothing is  _hard_ , there’s just nothing. To. Say.” Shaw sneers at Root, and Root can feel the spite in the glare biting at her painfully.

 _Maybe I should just drop this whole thing_ , she thinks with exasperation, looking into Shaw’s stern eyes.  _No, I can’t, I can’t wait any longer._  “Well  _I_  have something to say,” Root says, and Shaw bites her bottom lip in frustration. Suddenly, her stomach seems to flip, and she feels a nervousness in her heart. With a slow, steady breath, she swallows. “Shaw. I care about you. I have feelings for you. That’s not ‘nothing.’  _Not_  to me. And I know that you d-“

"Don’t even  _say_  it,” Shaw spits out venomously, face coming closer to Root’s in rage.

"Say what," Root replies in an even tone.

"Say that I do. Don’t you remember?" Her question is rhetorical and haughty. "I don’t  _have_  feelings.” Shaw stalks away from the door, back down the hall, and Root turns to look at her as she goes.

"Don’t give me that," Root replies, anger showing in her words. "If you don’t have feelings, then why are you here?" Shaw stops in her tracks, caught, and Root gives the smallest twitch of a smirk, knowing it. Shaw turns her head sideways, not looking at Root but exposing her sleek profile.

"You won’t like that answer."

The words bite, and Root feels the stinging fangs tearing at her. Her mind starts to reel, wondering what that could mean, what possibilities could be that awful to her? As her mind snakes through darker paths, she withdraws quickly, refusing to believe any of it.

"I want to know." She demands, criticizing herself for the smallest of tremors that creeps into her voice.

"You’re smart," Shaw throws back bitterly. "You figure it out."

"I think I already have," Root counters, and Shaw turns back to face her, a devilish smirk on her face, betting against Root.

"Oh  _have_  you now?” Shaw’s voice rises with each word. “Well let’s hear it then.”

Root steels her stomach before starting. She can feel a pained sneer on her face, and her eyes burn. “You care-  _some_  way,  _some_  how, you do- but there’s a part of you that denies  _everything_  you’re feeling. Because you aren’t used to this. I  _get_  it!” Root’s screaming now, angry and hurt and cracking. “I’m no expert on this either, but at least I’m  _trying_!”

"Trying at  _what_?!” Shaw yells back, walking forward heatedly at Root. “Trying at  _this_? There is  _nothing_  here.” Shaw’s eyes flicker, and Root rolls her tongue over her teeth, then looks down a moment. When her eyes come up to Shaw’s, there is a haunted half smile on her face.

"You’re lying," she whispers. "I can see it."

"I am not!" Shaw shouts, fidgeting her hands with guilt.

"If you want to lie to me? Fine," Root shouts with a deadly calm on her face. "But don’t keep lying to yourself- I can’t  _stand_  it when you lie to yourself.”

Shaw is quiet a minute, sneer dropping to a wickedly harsh smirk as her eyes darken. “ _I’m_  lying to  _myself_?” She asks in an incredulous tone. “What about you, huh?  _You’re_  the only one who has told you I care!” The words hit Root like a hollow point bullet, and she can feel the shrapnel ripping her apart. “ _You_  are the only one. I’ve never  _once_  said it.”

 _You didn’t have to_ , Root thinks bitterly, but is far too hurt to even open her mouth.

"You wrapped  _yourself_  around  _my_  finger,” Shaw continues, voice at a normal level once more. “ _I_  didn’t do that. The way you are, I could have taken advantage of you for  _anything_.”

"You’re right," Root replies frostily. "You  _could_  have. But you  _didn’t_. And that says something.” Shaw clenches her teeth, ears reddening.

"Let’s get  _one_  thing straight,” Shaw seethes, fingers curling into tight fists. “I do not give half a da-“

A phone rings. It’s Shaw’s, the front pocket of her black jeans illuminating slightly from the screen. Stiff, angry, she shoves her hand into her pocket, then answers.

"What."

"There is a number, I believe the danger is imminent." Harold’s voice is stern yet urgent. "I need you and Miss. Groves to make sure he makes it out of this. Alive."

"Kind of in the middle of something, Harold," Root says loudly, hoping it will pick up in the cell’s receiver. He’s silent a moment, and when he talks again, his voice is slightly surprised.

"Well, uh.. I’m sorry, Miss. Groves-  _er_ \- Miss. Shaw..” his voice trails off, then picks back up in its original manner. “But your quarrel can wait, this man’s life can’t.” Shaw sighs, feeling a small fraction of her anger dissipating in the breath. Not looking at Root, she responds,

"What’s the name and address? We’re on our way."

______________\ If Your Number’s Up /_____________

The eight minute subway ride and six block walk was made in awkward silence, neither women able to speak, but both with a lot on their minds. Root feels the worry creep in past her anger, crowding her already cluttered mind.  _What if she truly means that?_  Root frets.  _That she doesn’t care at all? What if I am really nothing to her other than a co-worker?_  The thoughts eat at her, and she feels herself hollowing out. Turning to a large abattoir on a mostly lifeless road just out of the city, she takes in it’s old brick walls and rusted, metal front door. The only windows are around the top of the building’s perimeter, and the entire grounds wreaks of flesh and antiseptic. They walk past the chain-link fence easily, finding an open flap between two of the support poles. Looking up, Root takes in the metallic barbed wire against the blue sky. Their feet crunch against dead grass, and Root scrunches her nose as the smells grow, forcing their way into her mouth and eyes. Root hears her phone buzz, and clicks her earpiece.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Root, Shaw with you?" John’s voice is slightly winded, and there is the sound of shaking leaves in the background. Root looks over at Shaw, her stern face, hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, loose strands of hair floating in the slight breeze.

"Yeah," Root replies, looking away the second Shaw’s turn to her. "We’re working a number."

"Send me the address, Lionel and I will meet you there." Hanging up, Root pulls out her phone, stopping to send him the message. Once it goes through, Root looks up.

"John and Lionel are going to meet us he-" she stops, looking around.  _Where is she?_ Root’s eyes become worried as she scans the perimeter, seeing no sign of guards or of Sameen. At the last second, she sees a wisp of black hair disappear behind the entrance’s heavy door. With a sigh, she pulls out her guns, then jogs to the front door, stepping inside.

To her surprise, it is brightly lit, and there is a front desk, polished and spotless. The walls are white, and everything seems to be far too clean.

"Root, this way," hearing Shaw’s voice, she follows it, coming to an oak door. She grabs the handle, and on Shaw’s count, opens it. Shaw bursts in, gun raised, but it is nothing more than a door to another door.  _But this door isn’t like the others,_  Root acknowledges with an edge to her thoughts.  _It’s a refrigerator door_. Thick and shiny, it is icy cold to the touch. Root looks to Shaw and nods. Pulling at the plastic handle, it stays closed at first, then the sound of an atomic suction cup bomb explodes in her ears, and it jerks open.

Instantly, they are blasted with cold, and that smell. The smell of frozen cardboard and frozen meats. This room is dark and dank- seemingly endless. It looks like a warehouse for coats, but instead of jackets on hooks, it is animal carcasses. Pigs strung up and skinned. Large chunks of bloody meat sit on racks as the blood drips out, and others are soaking in vats of mysterious liquids. Further back, the animals grow far larger, the bodies held up by thick hooks through their centers, all swinging procariously on chains. Cows.

"If I didn’t love steak so much, I might’ve became a vegetarian from this place," Shaw remarks, looking around as she brings an arm in front of her nose, the stench overwhelming. The bodies seem endless, chains and chains in so many layers, red muscle and white fat clinging together twenty high, fifty across, and thirty in. Shaw turns away from the scene, walking into a small corridor just beside the door. She sees blood-stained gloves and plastic, painting suits discarded in a nearby hamper. At the end of the small hall is an old, chipped door without a handle. Bracing her gun, she pushes it open.

 _Troughs. A room of troughs_. The entire boarder of the room is wrapped in one long, iron tub, drains placed every few feet. On the wall nearest to her, there is an array of sharp instruments, all glimmering with the life they’ve stolen. One- the largest- is a long, shallow hook with a sharp point and razor sides, all held by a long, black pole. It reminds her of the Grim Reaper’s scythe.  _So this is where they come to die,_  she thinks bluntly, not knowing how else to put it.  _The wonders of ‘fresh meat_ ’. She can’t help but picture it, the bloody seen of animals seeing their last minutes in a room that smells of blood and bleach. The smell is overwhelming, and Shaw finds herself growing sick. From behind her, there is the sound of work boots on stairs, and she turns, glad to have an excuse to leave that room.

Jogging forward, she sees fleeting black work boots as they travel up a metallic staircase, but she loses sight of them past the wall of meat.  _But wait,_  she thinks with a strange knit in her brow.  _A second set of footsteps?_  Her eyes trail down the steps, and she sees Root chasing after them, guns drawn.  _Dammit, Root_ , Shaw swears, sprinting after her. _Why would you just run in this Hell House alone?_ She comes to the stairs just as Root disappears from sight. She takes them two at a time, trying not too see the bodies, to smell the curing at work. Making it to the top of the platform, she is left with a choice. _Left or right?_  After a split second’s decision, she chooses right, running down the grated flooring with her gun poised. The hooked meat acts as a curtain, and she is unable to see to the other trail-way on the other side of the room. With no more than three feet’s width on this little loft, she is constantly brushing up against the brick wall, not trusting the rusted, flimsy-at-best railing. The only thing separating her from a fall to the cement ground below.

She turns sharply at the corner, dismayed to see no doors in the wall.  _Just one long death trap,_  she thinks with fake joy, traveling down it swiftly. Half way through, the meat wall gives way to empty space, and Shaw can see the second half of the warehouse. She can see the stairs they took to get up there, the door they came through- the dark hall to that dreaded room. And, peering straight, she sees Root. She’s facing a man whose gun is drawn at her, both locked with weapons at the ready. Shaw tries to take aim with her hand gun, but finds it far too risky from this distance. _A football field? Field and a quarter? Wish I had my rifle,_  she thinks angrily, knowing how simple the shot would be with it.  _I’m good,_  she says to herself, trying once more to aim at the man, however, with him only a foot now from Root, she lowers it.  _But I’m not that good._

 _Not good enough, or not daring enough?_ She counters, and starts to run down the platform, having to travel the perimeter of the building on shaky grates. With anyone else, she would have taken the shot- no questions asked.  _But what is different with this?_  She asks herself.  _The fact that it’s Root? The possibility that the drafts from the rafters will sway the bullet too much to chance? The fear that even the slightest variable change could hurt or even kill Root?_  She shakes her head of the thoughts, wanting to focus all of her energy on getting to Root. She comes to another corner, the building having an L in its side.

She skids to a stop, skin scraping from her hand as it presses against the brick to slow her down. Mere inches away is a railing-  _the platform ends here._ Swearing under her breath, she looks back to Root, having no chance of aim at all now. He’s behind a long pillar that supports the building from floor to ceiling. Surveying her choices, she comes to the quickest option: jump. A few feet off, the platform starts again, with its own railing blocking its edge, snaking all the way over to Root and this mystery man. I could catch him from behind, Shaw thinks, trying to formulate a good enough plot to make her actually attempt. And if he hears me, he’ll turn, giving Root her shot. Yet, the jump seems to grow further the longer she looks at it. Across at an angle, about a four foot gap between her unsteady rail and the next, and twenty-five feet down.

She looks over at Root again, hoping for some better angle to shoot, when her heart stops, blood freezing in her veins. There are two men creeping up behind her silently, unarmed but large and toned.

"Root! Duck!" She screams, aiming at the men. Root drops instantly, and Shaw fires off rounds. But they scurry like ants, taking cover behind the rows of meat, and she can feel with a sinking heart that her bullets aren’t passing through the pigs to them. No longer worried about her own fate, she jumps.

There’s a moment of upward push, a feeling like a jump. Then, there is a second of suspense, as she is not rising nor falling, but floating perfectly in place. But, like an avalanche, it all comes crashing down, and her flight turns to a fall, and she can feel gravaity’s hands shoving at her back, pulling at her hands and her feet, beckoning her down.

She grabs hold of the opposite rail, feeling its frail groundings giving out against her dead weight. The bar groans as her hands hold firm to the bottom rung; she can feel the pieces of rust digging into her palms. For a minute, all she can hear is screaming metal and whooshing air, until all is silent. Looking up, she sees the railing intact, and sighs with relief.

A gun goes off, and she feels a bullet whip her ponytail back. The brick shatters, unleashing harsh pieces of rock and cement that pelt her in the side and face. Closing her eyes tight, she grits her teeth, pulling herself up and over the bar, flopping less than gracefully to the grate floor on the other side. All the while, bullets still whiz by.

It’s the number. His eyes are cold, face set in stone as he shoots at her. Pulling the trigger once more, his face comes down in a frown, no bullets escaping. From the ground, Root pounces upward, toppling him over. Shaw rushes forward, hearing a fight echo on the walls. The railing bursts open, and two bodies roll of the edge. Shaw watches with mortified eyes as they drop down, down, down. She sees as one pushes off of the other, and the fall separately. The number falls, back first, eyes wide and arms stretching upward. He falls fast, hitting the ground with a sickening smack. The second goes face first, back arched as the air pulls her shirt towards the sky, as if trying to stop her. Her hair is straight back, flying away from her as she hits the ground, front first.

Shaw recoils to the wall as she hears the sound, hears the sound of bones breaking and pain exploding. She feels a numbness all over.  _Root. Oh my God, Root_. She runs down the grates, not stopping for a moment, just heading straight for the stairs. _People have lived from higher_ , she tells herself assuringly.  _A woman jumped six stories with not even a scrape_ , she recalls.  _But she fell on dirt, this is concrete_. Shaw can barely hear her footsteps over the rush of blood in her ears.

"Now look-y here!" A man’s nasally voice says just out of Shaw’s line of sight. "Boss is dead ‘n now we got a woman."

"Yeah," the second replies in a deep, rumbling voice. "What we gon’ do with her?"

"She dead?" The first asks.

"I dunno, but take her guns," the second commands, and Shaw hears rummaging, but no sounds of life.

Shaw barrels down the last stair just as the first man takes the weapons, handing one to his colleague. Finally able to view the scene, she sees the large men from before- one snow and one midnight- standing over the bodies.  _The bodies_ , Shaw thinks with dread.  _Not the people, the bodies_. The dark one raises his newly acquired gun at her, but she ignores him, setting her sights on the nearly albino man standing over Root. In the blink of an eye, he sweeps her up in one arm, holding her just under the arms, shoving the gun to her head.

 _Is it necessary?_  She wonders, heart sinking. Root’s head lolls to the side, unfazed by the gun’s touch. Her entire body is loose and her skin is an unhealthy, sallow color. Her eyes are only half open, the lids still unable to cover the fact that her eyes are rolled back, only the whites showing. There is a bloody wound at her temple.

"Put the gun down or I shoot!" The man holding her says, Gaelic tongue coming through. Shaw tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes.

"Do you even know  _how_  to shoot a gun?” Shaw asks in a condescending way, hoping to egg him on. _Come on,_ she says in her head like a snake charmer to a cobra.  _Point it at me. Come on._

"Yes."

"Are you  _sure_?” Shaw asks snidely. “From the looks of it, you never handled one before. This isn’t Halo, sunshine.” She sees him bristling with anger.  _Come on, come on, aim it at me._ "So, honestly, can you  _actually_  shoot a gun?”

"Wanna find out?" He sneers, pushing the gun roughly to Root’s skull. The cobra strikes, not taking the bate of the charmer.

"No," Shaw replies, trying to keep the worry from her voice. She sees his shaky finger too close to the trigger for comfort.  _So help me if he accidentally lets that thing go off._

"Then drop your weapon," the second man says, and Shaw glances at him quickly. When she doesn’t comply, he adds, "Now."

"And don’t pull any shit, either," the first sneers, hiking Root up higher in his arms. Still, she doesn’t make a motion. Slowly, Shaw holds the gun to the side with one hand, coming to a crouch and placing it on the ground, then comes back to a stand.

"Kick it over here." The darker man says, and she does. It skitters over to him, hitting their number’s shattered head on the way; getting caught in his pool of blood. "Good girl," he coos, and walks forward. Obviously more experienced with a gun than his comrade, he leaves it pointed at her as her circles her. Stopping behind, he kicks at her knees, and the give. She drops to the ground with a grimace, cut up hands stinging against the concrete. He straddles her, heavy mass nearly crushing her ribs, while he pulls a zip-tie from his pocket. With the barrel of Root’s gun pressed into her hair, he quickly zips her hands together- far too tight.

"What we doin’ with ‘em?" The Irish man asks as the other pulls Shaw harshly to her feet.

"We getting rid of them, that’s what."

___________\ We’ll Find You /____________

Shaw sits, back against an icy cold trough, feeling the cold air reaching all the way to her bones. Across the room is a form that is splayed out like ink dropping to paper. Messy. Everywhere. Chaotic. Her hair covers her face, but Shaw can see the blood in it, matting it together. On the ground, there is a small circle of blood already forming where her head lays. Her legs are both at off angles, and her hands are out of sight, back to Shaw. From just outside the door, she hears the two burly men talking- talking about killing them.  _Killing me,_ she corrects with stones in her stomach. Her eyes trail down Root’s frame, stopping at her hip. Her shirt rides up slightly, exposing ghostly white skin.  _Crap._

"Shaw, you there?" John. It’s John.

"Yes, yes I’m here, where the hell are  _you_?” Her voice is a whisper, but loud with rage.

"We got lost, we should be there in ten minutes."  _Ten minutes?_  Shaw thinks with dread. “Everything okay over there?”

 _No. Not at all._  “Things have been better,” Shaw responds cautiously, thinking of a way to rid herself of the zip-tie, feeling it digging deep into her skin.  _We don’t have ten minutes. She doesn’t have ten minutes_. Her eyes trail to the wall of knives, razors, and other killing machines. “John, I have to go now,” her voice is calm and collected, as if excepting her day on death row.  _And maybe I am_. “But you promise me you’ll get here in six.” With that, she jerks her head roughly until the earpiece flies out.  _No distractions_. She scoots across the cold floor, coming over to the wall. Silently, she stands, facing away from the wall as she gropes blindly for any sort of weapon. Finally, a small, toothpick like blade pokes her flesh, and she yanks at it. Feels like a file, she thinks to herself, hurriedly sawing away at the zip-tie. After seconds that seem like minutes, the tie breaks, falling to the floor. She turns, looking at the wall. Eyes scanning over every option, she picks a machete-like knife, then sneaks away, wary not to be seen through the hole in the door. She peeks through it, glad there is no doorknob, and sees both men looking away from them. Turning, she crawls over to Root.

Shaw places the knife down silently, then holds her breath. Bringing a hand to Root’s shoulder, she pulls her to her back, and the hair falls away from her face. Shaw can feel her heart cracking, and scolds herself heavily for it.

"Root," she whispers, to no response. "Root, hey." Nothing.

Sighing, feeling all of her collapsing from within, she picks up Root’s head delicately. Falling into a sitting position, she puts Root’s head in her lap, brushing her hair behind her ears.  _Cold_ , Shaw thinks as her fingers trace along Root’s skin. She feels a scratchy lump in her throat, and fights hard to swallow it. She brings her hand to Root’s chest, trying to feel for a heartbeat, but her own pulse is too wild to tell. Angrily, she brings her hand back to Root’s face, fingers trailing across her jaw bone.

"I’ll hate you forever if you die on me, you hear?" She whispers hostilely. Then, she puffs out a large breath. "Not, uh, not really. But don’t die, alright? There are still things I need to tell you." She looks over to the door, hearing the men talk.

"Just shoot the small one," the Irish man insists.

"No, I’m not going to be responsible for a smoking gun. We’ll do something else."

"What if she fights back?"

"Then I’ll just  _have_  to put one in each of her eyes.” The dark man chuckles indulgently. “If she ain’t going easy, she’s going  _ugly_.”

She pulls her attention from them, eyes coming back to Root. “Like how much of an  _idiot_  you are for following him  _alone_ ,” she hisses, but looking at Root, she can’t stay mad. “Like how you were right earlier.” She swallows, trying to find any words to say.  _Where is John? It doesn’t matter_ , she decides.  _This matters._ "Part of me hopes you can’t hear this," she confesses, "but part of me hopes you do. That way I don’t have to say it again." She allows herself a small, tension diffusing smile as she lets her hand brush along Root’s forehead, coming to the other side of her face. "You make my life so  _difficult_ , you know that? You make it confusing, and chaotic, and corybantic. But- I guess- that’s what makes it worth while,” she says with a small smile, closing her eyes for a moment, breathing. “Not sure why I argue with you, you’re usually right.  _Extremely_  annoying, by the way, but… it’s just my nature. You made  _that_  confusing to,” Shaw tells her. “My nature. It was always comfortable and straight forward. Like a, like a shot of vodka. But then  _you_  come along like some frilly, crazy  _freaking_  cocktail Island Oasis to complicate it all. And  _sure_ , it might taste better than vodka alone, but it’s different and new and surprising and…  _God_ , I need a drink.” She laughs silently. “To keep me from this  _stupid_  rambling.”

There is a loud noise from the other side of the door- a gun.

"Give me that!" That black man shouts, and she can hear him take the gun. "You wanna blow yourself to bits?"

The Irish man grumbles a measly response.

"You ready t’go in there?" He asks the Irish man.

"Yeah, but tell me again how we’re gon’ handle her." The dark man sighs in annoyance, then relays their plan slowly.

"We gonna go in there; we gonna lean her over them troughs; and we gonna slit her little throat like all the other hogs in this place. Remember now?"

Shaw’s body tenses slightly, knowing her time is in short supply. “And, Root?” She places Root back down, sliding forward to sit in front of her, holding her hands behind her back with the machete in between them. “I-“

The door bursts open, and the two men plow through.

"The hell you doin’ over  _here_?” The black man demands, pointing a gun at her head.

"Just checking on her, considering  _you_  didn’t.” Her voice is harsh, anger flaring at them.

"No need to check her," he retorts. "She’s dead." The words bounce around in Shaw’s head until they sting.  _No, no, she’s not_. It’s a hope, but it’s there none the less. “Get up.”

She sits.

"I said get up."

She sits.

"You wan’ me to shoot you?" He asks, clicking the safety off the gun.

"Depends," Shaw replies casually, and the man’s eyes narrow.

"On what," he demands.

"Check her," Shaw replies, jerking her head back. He looks at her with wide eyes, then laugh.

"I don’ owe you no favors."

"You want me to cooperate don’t you? Like you said, you don’t want to be responsible for a smoking gun." His eyes turn to slits at her cocky tone, and he walks forward, keeping the gun on her as he comes over to Root. Shaw turns slightly, pressing her back to the trough, hiding a wince as the blade knicks her shoulder blade. He puts two fingers to Root’s neck, then waits a moment. Pulling back, he stands up straight, towering over Shaw with his gun pointed straight down at her.

"Like I said. She’s dead."

Shaw can feel herself deflate, every hope she had sinking into nothingness. “Guess it’s shooting time,” she tells him.

"Wait, wha-"

Before he can finish, Shaw bursts up, smacking his hand to the side and withdrawing her weapon. The gun goes off, bullet hitting the solid trough and ricocheting back.

"Cac naofa!" The Irish man shrieks, falling to the ground, holding at his thigh. "Cad é an  _ifrean_!”

Shaw jabs upward, catching the man in the side of the arm with the blade. He drops the gun, coming to his wounded arm’s aide. Tossing her to the side, the knife skates away. She scampers to her feet, then rushes at him. They share blows back and forth, Shaw’s rage morphing into pure adrenaline. She kicks his knee cap to the side, and it slides out of place with a sickening pop. He droops over, hand coming to his knee- big mistake. Quick as a spark in a room of gasoline, her body ignites, pulling him into a headlock. He rips at her arms, nails tearing into her skin. Still, she does not let go. He slackens, hands dropping, but still she does not let go.

Something inside of her keeps her pulling in, keeps her from letting go. Maybe it’s because he gave her the bad news; maybe it’s the only way to let her pain release.

"Shaw!" John’s voice comes to her in a wave as he and Lionel burst through the door. She’s bloodied from the fight, nail marks down her arms and gashes in her hands, eyes wild. "Let him go," he instructs Shaw, but she doesn’t move. " _Shaw_.” He says, eyes harsh. She looks into them, not moving any other muscle. Then, she lets go, and he drops like lead to the ground.  _Still breathing,_  Shaw sees with frustration.  _Pity._

"CocoaPuffs isn’t doing so hot," Fusco says, kneeling down beside her. "She needs help. Now."

 _What?_ Shaw thinks, confused. “She’s alive?” Shaw asks, feeling the tremble in her voice; not caring at all. Fusco gives her a quick nod.

"Lot’s of broken bones from the looks of it. Probably a wicked concussion with that gash. Needs medical attention."

"I can do that. I can- I can do medical," she assures him. John walks over to her, picking her seemingly lifeless body off the ground with ease. Shaw comes up right beside him, barely giving him room to walk. She hears a guttural noise escape Root’s lips, every second of it screaming in pain.

"Root."

Shaw can hear something of a gurgle. She looks at her- watching her face. Her lips barely move, but two words come out almost inaudibly. “Heard… you.”


End file.
